The Griffons Might Be Gone
by Freckles04
Summary: Alistair tries to express his feelings in written form for his queen - much to Eamon's amusement. Written for the Secret Cupid exchange on Tumblr for Hysazu, featuring her Warden Cadhla.


Late nights no longer agreed with Eamon. As he wandered down the hall, various aches and pains and other discomforts made themselves known, amplified by the darkness of the hour and the dampness that had seeped into the castle despite the well-maintained hearths. His knee protested each stride, threatening to lock up; and apparently he'd developed a kink in his shoulder at some point this evening. Too many hours seated at his desk, too many reports to pen and letters to read.

He frowned as he approached Alistair's study, noting the golden light reaching out from beneath the closed door. His strides slowed, then stopped. Alistair was a grown man, able to dictate his own hours. He knew his duty—the lad always had—and Eamon had no doubt that he would be ready for their full day of meetings tomorrow. Military reports from all over Ferelden would be heard first thing in the morning, and then they would entertain the Orlesian ambassador at an early luncheon. That was why Eamon had stayed up so late, himself: to prepare for the games Orlesian politicians liked to play. So many word traps and loops in logic; he despised it, even if some part of him appreciated the canniness and agility required to twist oneself around in such a manner.

Even so, there was no need for Alistair to wear himself out. Eamon knew the separation from Cadhla strained the young King; if she'd been anyone other than the Warden of legend, he would have suggested someone else fill the role of Warden Commander so she could remain at Alistair's side, helping him rule and keeping his demeanour brighter than it had been in recent days. Though Eamon hadn't been impressed with how the Warden had wrangled herself onto the throne beside Alistair, he had to admit she was good for the lad. Strong and stoic, she calmed him, steadied him, anchored him.

He hoped the business in Amaranthine would be done soon.

In the meantime, however, Alistair had meetings on the morrow, and a bed awaiting him tonight. Tapping gently on the door so as not to startle the King, Eamon pushed it open—and realized that startling Alistair was not going to be possible. Unless he had a pair of cymbals handy.

The King's head lay atop his desk, short blonde hair mussed. Snores escaped him, low rumbles that masked Eamon's steps across the study floor, even when his foot found a loose, creaking board. The dancing flames in the study's hearth cast shadows and light throughout the room, gilding Alistair's cheek and the small puddle of drool gathered near his mouth.

"Maker's breath," Eamon murmured, his lips curving upward. For a moment, he saw a boy of no more than eight years old curled up in a sunbeam on a summer's day. He blinked and the present slid back into place.

Reaching out, his hand prepared to gently shake the King back to the land of the aware, Eamon paused as he caught sight of his brother's name on one of the pieces of parchment strewn across the desk. His brow furrowed as his hand changed direction to pluck the paper away from the rest.

_Teagan says no purple prose. What is purple prose? Should I not use that colour? Is it bad luck or something? Must research._

Eamon's frown deepened. What in Andraste's name… Curiosity piqued, he continued reading.

_Leli: "Let your heart sing." I _think_ I know what that means. Maybe. Should I be writing a song instead? Oh, Maker's ass, I don't even…_

_Wynne: "No griffons." Entirely unhelpful. Of course I have to mention griffons, she's the Warden Commander._

_Should I write her brother? Could give input on her as a child. Might ask why though, and…no, bad idea._

_Dammit._

_DAMMIT._

_All right. All right, all right, I can do this._

_"What's in a name? That which we call a rose_  
><em>By any other name would smell as sweet." <em>

_Need to be more original._

_DAMMMMMMMIT._

Smothering a chuckle, Eamon put the parchment down and picked up another. A doodle of a rose decorated one corner—surprisingly detailed and actually quite good. Other, smaller roses were scattered about, partially obscuring the text in the centre, and seemed to have been added haphazardly as the doodler-writer considered his…words.

_Roses are red,_  
><em>Violets are blue,<em>  
><em>The griffons might be gone,<em>  
><em>But I still want you.<em>

The Arl of Redcliffe slapped a hand over his mouth to hold in the snort of laughter that threatened to peal throughout the study. Breathing hard through his nose, he looked down at the oblivious sleeping King as his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. After a moment, he took a deep breath and cleared his throat softly, and very deliberately did _not_ look at Alistair's poem again, lest laughter overtake him once more.

He couldn't resist picking up another parchment, though.

_Your smile widens, brightening like the sun_  
><em>Through the clouds.<em>  
><em>My heart gladdens, lightening like you're the one<em>  
><em>Blah blah blah…<em>

_Alistair…this is awful. AWFUL._

Eamon tilted his head from side to side, considering. That one _might_ have been passable, given some work and some time. And minus the "Alistair" part, of course.

Despite his amusement at the King's expense, he sympathized. Being away from the one you loved was never easy. Add to that the stress of ensuring their newly repaired country remained whole and healthy—not to mention the stress of wondering if Cadhla remained whole and healthy herself—and he could certainly understand Alistair's need to express his continued love for her in some special manner.

Perhaps he could see about hiring a minstrel who might be inclined to offer some instruction in the arts. It was an idea, though he wasn't sure if Alistair would appreciate it…particularly if he realized Eamon had read his attempts at poetry.

Sighing, the Arl pushed the papers aside, then paused as he spotted a parchment with more writing on it than the others—and one devoid of doodles, strikeouts, or self-deprecating comments, from the look of it.

_My dearest Cadhla,_

_I have spent the time since I saw you in Amaranthine trying to (please don't laugh) write you a poem. A love poem, if you must know. No, I will not show you my attempts, Maker's breath. As soon as I finish this letter, they will find a new home atop the flames in the fireplace, never to be spoken of again. Leli, Wynne, even Teagan had suggestions for me, but even with their thoughts and my research in the palace library, I couldn't pull something together that truly illustrates how I feel for you._

_I can picture you so clearly. How the dawn's light teases out the red in your hair, how your eyes spark when you think something's funny, how serious your expression can be when needed. I remember so easily how wonderful it is to hold you in my arms, how your smiles warm my heart. But I can't put that into any sort of poetry that does you justice._

_So I suppose this is a letter to let you know I tried and failed. How romantic. It's the thought that counts, right? Does that matter?_

_Regardless, I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here, and I hope you are safe._

_Write soon._

_Yours, always,_  
><em>Alistair<em>

Eamon's eyes scanned the words again, a smile slowly creeping across his lips. He folded the letter carefully, then retrieved another of the papers and folded it as well. He could ensure the King's missive was sealed before he retired for the evening, so it could leave the palace with the morning post. Well, it and its companion parchment.

Alistair was absolutely right: any poem for the Warden Commander _must_ include a mention of griffons.


End file.
